


the hills are alive with light

by millimallow



Series: the world of owa [2]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Elves, Family Bonding, Fantasy, Gen, Gnomes, Letters, The High Shires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 08:20:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17484551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millimallow/pseuds/millimallow
Summary: you may stray far from home, but below the earth is another place for you.





	the hills are alive with light

“are you sure that this’ll work?”

“i’m not sure of anything, but i don’t think it’s a waste of our time to try. so let’s try.”

my name is shenahra asramh. i would have a long, hard time explaining how i got into this situation, so let’s cut to the chase- me and my cousin/on-and-off criminal conspirator tusol are on the run. our efforts in smuggling bootleg wines from the pinnacle vineyards up through the trevailian ports was evidently unappreciated by the inspecting dock warden, his greying moustache curling up at the corners like a drying fern. and though tusol tried to bargain for our safe passage, i knew that it was over, over unless we ran. so that’s what we’ve been doing for the past few days. running. well, not constantly, and not in the most literal sense of running. but trying to get somewhere out of the way enough that nobody could think to look for us there. so much for the great income we would receive for our efforts hefting bottles of red in burlap backpacks under the guise of gifts for relatives, then hawking them to tourists on the streets.

in fact, so much for my dignity.

our most obvious route from the port city was to be the one which took us the furthest away from high concentrations of people. people who might recognize us. away as well from notable border checks. we had identification, but only the goddess of mercy could save us if we were to be found. this took us through the plainslands, from where we headed south-west to the border with the high shires. it was out inevitable destination, but in one of his many lectures tusol turned to me and instructed- “the north-west border is a touchy place. we might escape, only to be killed by some raving dwarf with a tattoo on his skull.” i doubted he had ever even met a member of the sarmot fir, but i did not trust the state of conflict there myself, so we went south, cutting time by sneaking into the cargo holders of several trains which bought us only a few miles’ trek from the official border station. as fitting for an area as sparse as the plainslands, the trains were few and far between, though timely when they came. standing on the loosely defined gravel platform, i was able to look into tusol’s eyes for the first time since our near-capture and ask him a question.

“what are we going to do when we get to the shires?”

“live out of a cave.” i was astonished at the answer.

“we’ve never lived outside of anything other than a normal clay home. how can that possibly be your solution?” i cried, but tusol only smirked in response.

“it’s only until the heat dies down. when something bigger than a few petty bootleggers comes up we will be forgotten about. that, or until we meet some hot mountain chick.” i turned away to end the line of inquiry, not knowing how serious his statement was.

it was not a serious journey from our final station to the border crossing, from which we would travel on foot. the guard, a halfling whose seat prevented any eye contact, was apathetic about our entry. the latter trail was what made me more nervous. if the plainslands is vast and windswept, the high shires is the pressure point of where a great god once cracked the earth open long before any human, halfling or elf. its ridges are mind-numbingly steep, conditions scorching hot and exposed in places while completely frigid elsewhere. the people who live there do so very carefully and with thousands of years of experience. initially it was not the worst- tusol’s frequent attempts to eat certainly-poisonous berries were easily thwarted- but hours in a great desperation overcame me. i could not go further without filling my hand wounds with dirt, as all our greatly limited supply of bandages had been expended on an unfortunate wild dog bite tusol sustained. and as such, when the moon became full and heady over us, i requested that we camp for the night.

“nonsense. why camp in the wild where we can get mauled by anyone or anything that passes us by? it’s not like we have tents.”

“you’ve already been mauled. i’m doing better than you on the mauling front.”

“well, there was the time aunt irtha’s birdhound bit your knee at the house.” it was true- the marks were still there. but i was eleven, and the dog was only the size of a housecat.

“so we’ll walk through the night?” i replied tartly.

“no, we’ll camp indoors. have a look over there.” he pointed towards the horizon, down one of the gentler mossy slopes we had encountered so far.

“i can’t see anything”.

tusol laughed in response. “that’s because you have the eyesight of a bat on a good day with glasses on. there are lights over there, and lights means people.” perhaps it meant fireflies, i thought, but i wasn’t about to get smart with him when we needed rest. i didn’t suggest the people could be bandits, either, on several grounds: bandits pick common paths, that our situation could hardly get worse and that tusol wasn’t likely to listen. what did i do? i picked up my pace and followed him, resigned to meet what was on the other side of that light. and it’s from there i’m writing this now.

i mentioned previously that people who live in this environment have to live clever, and it proves true. the light source we stumbled upon- an amalgamation of firey torches and buzzing electric lights- was only the front of what i could only just make out to be a village carved into the side of the mountain. tusol had knocked on the door before i could suggest otherwise. only a few seconds could pass before the small door was opened by a gnome, tawny skinned and grey haired with a distinct element of pallour, who then emerged.

“what is your business at this time of day?”

“we’ve been travelling. and we’re looking to board for the night.” the gnome looked up and down tusol as i winced at his confidence internally- we had kept little money on us to avoid customs troubles, and there was no way he didn’t know this. after a solid look-over he pointed inwards.

“come with me. and whoever that is.” i hurried to tusol’s behind and followed as quickly and unobtrusively as i could, but the gnomish occupants took note of two humans regardless. the cramped feeling of the structure was alien and uncomfortable, its roofs low and twists many, but we eventually reached a much greater room with a higher ceiling. before we could sigh in relief, we noticed a gnomish woman on a grand throne of oak and gold thread drapings, face as cold and metallic as the jewellery which adorned her face.

“why do you bring these outsiders here, callatar amsai?” she asked, her voice still.

“they came to ask for boarding.” his head was bowed- the impression of her power was undeniable despite her youth.

“why must we entertain them?”

“there is no obligation.”

she paused. “state your names, travellers.”

“tusol.”

“shenahra.”

“where do you come from?” i let tusol speak, though i was afraid he would easily let his tongue run away with him.

“trevailia, ma’am.” her expression betrayed her disinterest. “we have been through talgene mer and the plainslands for our visit.”

“its purpose being?”

“…sightseeing.” and it was turning sour.

“what do you do that compels you to sightsee here?” tusol could not answer. he would not admit it, but his path in life was that of a petty crook. my heart bundled into my throat, i spoke for him.

“i’m a writer.”

“you are?” it was not untrue- i figured it gave me a better chance than otherwise. “and you came here to write?”

“indeed.” after a moment, she stepped down from her throne, long dark hair trailing behind her as she walked.

“my name is heani klattisvula.” she held her hand out to me and i took it into mine, feeling its small size and its warmth. “can you write something for me and my people?”

and so i have.


End file.
